Chapter 21: Master of the Mystic

Summary: In which Darcy has a meltdown and Tony Stark makes a very...strange friend.

Notes: Hi All! So...yeah. Sorry for that cliffhanger. In my defense, I did warn you, like, half a dozen times. And apologize in advance. So. Sorry. Again. I won't keep you with these notes, therefore, I'll just let you get to it. Let me know how you like. Chapter title taken from...I can't really tell you, as it's sort of a spoiler. If you recognize it, then good for you! But, anyway, it belongs to Michael Giacchino, great soundtrack. Love y'all! Shoot me a comment! Sarah

((()))

She came awake all at once, jerking, her eyes snapping open to reveal a view of a white ceiling, clean and sterile and bright.

"Whoa, there, Short Stack," a familiar voice said beside her, low and soothing. "Take it easy."

She snapped her gaze to the left and found Tony in a chair beside her bed, bandaged, his left arm in a sling, his left cheek stitched. But he was giving her a tender look. "Take it easy, baby girl."

She jerked again, alarmed at the unfamiliar surroundings, and came up onto her elbows, her mind supplying her with little in the way of memory.

"Whoa. C'mon, Darce. Lie back down." Tony stood and placed his good hand on her shoulder.

"Where are we?" she demanded, her voice dry and rough from disuse.

He pushed down on her shoulder. "We're back at the Tower."

She blinked, then blinked again, her eyes taking forever to adjust to the light.

"Brought you back in the Quinjet. Wasn't about to road trip it with you falling apart on me." He pushed down again on her shoulder, glancing over his own toward the adjoining doorway.

Road trip.

She slumped back as the magnitude of everything that had happened hit her like a freight train, the effect knocking her flat on her back and gasping again, pain pulling tears up and out in a record two seconds flat. "Jamie," she gasped, clutching at her chest, where it felt like an ice cream scoop had dug a hole out of her. "Oh, God…"

Tony flinched.

She sat up again, slowly, dragging his arm aside. "Where is he?"

The inventor visibly hesitated. "Darce…"

"I have to see him," she snapped. "Where is he?!"

Even he couldn't stop the automatic reflex to look up at the opposite door, giving himself away.

And she was dropping down from the bed without thinking, staggering as the room spun again and catching herself up on the foot.

"Darce—you're not supposed to be up yet—" he said, making a grab for her.

But she used all her willpower to evade him, crossing the room toward the door.

"Bruce!" he yelled.

She stopped in the doorway, staring into the adjoining room. It looked much the same as the one she'd woken up in, all bright white and barely recognizable. But she didn't notice.

"Darcy…" Bruce scolded, frowning from the side of the bed.

But she didn't notice the room and she didn't hear him.

She could only stare at the figure in the lone hospital bed, both familiar and a Perfect. Fucking. Stranger.

Her Jamie was strong, built like an ox, thick and strapping.

Her Jamie had endured so much to get where he was, so much, and his will had made him tough and unbeatable.

Her Jamie was handsome, with that soft hair around his face, and his sea glass eyes, and his secret blush at just the right prompting, at the tips of his ears, and his sunny smile.

Her Jamie, with his jangling laugh and his scrunched up nose, and his crinkly eyes, and his charming wink, and his cooking and his slow dancing and his arms, tucked just right around her, and his big hands and his determination to surpass everything awful in his past.

He was impossible to knock down, her Jamie.

This was not her Jamie.

This Jamie looked fragile and weak, pale and gaunt, like he was hanging on by a thread, not all there, under threat of floating away like a balloon on a string on a sunny summer afternoon in the park.

This Jamie was connected to wires and needles, hooks, and tubes and machines.

This Jamie came with the additional equipment, a beeping heart monitor and a wheezing oxygen machine, his handsome face obscured by all the mess.

This Jamie looked half dead.

Darcy wasn't sure this Jamie had regained his pulse.

She wasn't sure where this Jamie ended and her Jamie began.

She stared, her hand over her mouth, listening to her own ragged breathing, horror at what she'd done seeping into her bones, drip by drop, like the tears beating tracks down her face.

"He's alive," Bruce said as he straightened his glasses. "I don't know what you did, Darcy, but he's alive."

Her knees wobbled unsteadily beneath her, unsure they wanted to continue in their efforts to hold her up.

"Whoa…" And Tony was there, behind her, his good arm around her waist, leaning her back against him. "Whoa, Short Stack. Take it easy. I've gotcha." He helped her stagger forward while Bruce moved a chair up to the side of the bed, watching her with sharp eyes the whole while until he took over and helped her settle in the plastic seat.

Claiming her brain back from its wooziness, she sat there, silent and staring at him, the breathing tube over his face and mouth, his pale skin, the gash that remained on his temple and brow, curling around the back of his skull. She couldn't speak.

"If you're wondering what kind of injury would be capable of taking out a super soldier, this is a good place to start," he said, sitting down across the bed from her. "I don't know how you did what you did. Super soldier or not, Darcy, he…" He shook his head, deliberately leaving it hanging.

"Shouldn't be alive," she whispered.

He met her gaze with a steady, knowing stare. "Considerable damage to both the Occipital Lobe and his Cerebellum, hence he's hooked up. Must've taken something to the head, but Steve doesn't know what might've happened, only that he found him soon after."

She nodded, swallowing thickly and making a study of her hands, knotted and shaking, in her lap. "He's not breathing on his own." Again, she found herself unable to speak above a whisper. It felt all sorts of wrong that a human made capable of such strength, vitality, and purpose could be reduced to…

Bruce sighed. "No. He's not."

"Is there any brain activity?" Tony asked, pulling up a chair with his good arm.

Bruce pulled a hand through his hair. "Yes. So there's that. That's good."

"Are you okay?" Darcy suddenly asked, having not really consciously decided to, and this time, her voice was clear. "You look exhausted."

Bruce blinked at her in surprise. "Um." A small smile. "I'm fine, Darcy. The Other Guy takes a lot outta me, that's all. Takes more than a couple days to get back to normal. Nothing to worry about."

She nodded, swallowing again, her throat tight.

He sighed again. "There's a lot of brain activity, actually. But I'm no neurosurgeon, Darcy."

Tony sat forward. "I may…be able to use my connections, here," he said. "Just…putting that out there."

Darcy jerked. "What?"

Bruce raised a brow. "Strange?"

Tony shrugged. "Never met him, but…we used to run in the same circles. Might be worth a shot. I hear he's been…getting into some…odd trouble lately."

Bruce narrowed his eyes, studying the inventor. "See what you can do. I'll run scans later. I wanted to see if I could regulate him for a while before I went ahead with that, but…"

Darcy's hands were locked in her lap and she couldn't bring herself to look up. "There's been no improvement since we got back?" Again, back to whispers, her throat closing as she spoke until it cut out entirely on the last word and she realized that she was back to fiddling with her ring.

Tony set a steadying hand on her shoulder.

Bruce sat there for a long moment, just looking at her with half a wince, his Adam's Apple moving up, then down and a muscle in his jaw clenching, then unclenching, then clenching as she watched him out of the corner of her eye. Finally, he shook his head. "No."

Finally, with a deep, deep breath, she looked up and met his gaze full-on. "Isn't he supposed to heal? I mean, he's—"

"I'm not Zola, either, Darcy," Bruce cut in, speaking gently. "I'm sorry. I just don't know enough concerning the details of what was done to him. I…I'm IT, but I didn't…program him, if you'll pardon the comparison. Something like that is just as varied as the one who did the programming. I just don't know enough to really help him, Darcy. I might as well be a card-carrying doctor, but I'm certainly not experienced in…altering the human brain."

"What's wrong, though, Banner?" Tony finally asked. "Just give it all to her straight. You haven't had the balls to tell me either." He squeezed Darcy's shoulder. "I've been dogging him since I put you in that hospital bed."

Bruce leaned back in his chair. "He's got a pretty severe laceration to the back of his head. That gash on his temple is also on the severe side. Probably whiplash." He shrugged. "We probably all have whiplash, but we're all running so high no one's noticed."

Darcy nodded, swallowing, again, twisting her ring on her finger, one way, then the other, then back again.

"Again, I'm no neurosurgeon, but I'm getting brain activity. That's good. I'm not sure it's the right kind—he is, after all, on the oxygen machine. But he's enhanced. So…there's really no way to give you a prognosis. He should've begun healing by now, so…I don't know, Darcy. I'm sorry, but we're really in new territory here. For all I know about it, he could…be like this indefinitely. I'm not sure why he isn't responding the way he should."

She got as far as his hand with her eyes, and paused there, staring at it, strong, but not, limp and empty at his side, the vibranium alloy totally useless.

"Did anything…strange happen…in Hawaii?" Bruce pressed. "Anything that you noticed after you'd taken flight from Killian?"

She flinched away from the sight of the metal plates. "He…was acting a little…weird, yeah."

Tony sat forward. "'Weird' how?"

She shrugged. "I dunno. Withdrawn, a little, I guess."

Bruce nodded. "And?"

She tried to clear her throat but it was a fruitless endeavor. "I dunno. He was sort of like he was when we first met. Just sort of…closed off. Processing." She swallowed again. "I think whatever they used to keep him out of the beach house might've…knocked things loose."

"Things?" Bruce pushed.

She shrugged again. "Things he couldn't remember before. He told me things…that he'd tried to escape, twice…that he…" She sighed and tugged a hand through her hair. "That he was there. In Texas. In '63."

The room went silent, the only sounds the soft beeping of the heart monitor and the huffing of the oxygen machine.

"You know," Tony spoke. "I always figured Oswald was a patsy."

Bruce frowned at him in a scolding manner. "Furthermore, Darcy, if you would really like it 'straight', what you did back there was extremely foolish."

She blinked, all of this slowly coming into focus. "What…?"

Bruce stood and started pacing restlessly. "Darcy, you nearly killed yourself over him out there."

Tony sighed and sat back. "He's right."

But she could only sit and stare at Bucky, looking so lifeless and unlike himself, and she could think of no valid response that they would accept. "So?"

Bruce jerked to a stop and whipped around to stare at her. "So?!"

She shrugged again. "Yeah."

"Darcy, you collapsed. You've barely moved for the past forty-eight hours. I wasn't even sure, for a while, that you were breathing. Whatever reserves you've built up, they were empty, Darcy, you were putting yourself into him. Do you understand that?!"

But she could only sit there, watching his chest as it moved, unnaturally, with his provided breath. She didn't even realize the tears were back until one had splashed down on her hand. She didn't move. "Where else am I supposed to put it?"

Silence.

Bruce stared at her, his mouth open.

She met his gaze unapologetically, though combativeness wasn't at all on her mind just then.

Finally, Tony spoke again, his voice low. "Bruce, c'mon."

Banner's eyes flicked to his friend's face.

Tony sighed. "Betty?"

The Hulk's alter ego positively deflated at the mention of his sort-of lady love. He stood there, staring at her with a hopelessly sad expression. "I'm sorry I barked at you."

She nodded.

"We're all…a little out of sorts."

He slumped back down again and the three of them sat, watching Bucky's still form, and listening to the equipment do their jobs. "Surprisingly, there…isn't much of anything else wrong with him."

Darcy snorted, once, humorlessly. "Yeah. Surprise, surprise."

((()))

They fell into a routine, of sorts.

Darcy stayed for the morning, then went to Tony's lab to get some work done. He insisted she was off the hook until further notice, but she pushed for any distraction to be had, anything at all.

Bruce kept her apprised of the situation, but there was usually very little to report. Nothing changed in his prognosis. He just…was there, but not there.

Usually, when she returned around mid-afternoon, someone was sitting with him, just sitting and watching with a tight mouth and a hesitant, confused sort of expression. The first day it was Steve, then the second, it was Natasha.

Darcy went in that afternoon and let her bag slide down off her shoulder with a soft sound to the floor and of all people, the Russian spy actually started a little, looking up at her friend with a dazed sort of frown. "Hey," Darcy murmured.

But Natasha didn't answer. Instead, she stood and launched herself at her, wrapping Darcy in a long, tight hug, silent and shocked.

Darcy blinked, but accepted it in surprise, patting awkwardly at her back.

And then she was gone, having said not a word, back out of the lab.

She had tried to sleep there overnight the first night, but both Tony and Bruce had barred her from doing so, and the both of them together as a united front was something Darcy wasn't mentally prepared to try to outsmart. So she did as she was told, went up to their suite, and laid there for about six hours, unable to sleep and staring up at the dark ceiling instead. Finally, she pulled herself up and read in her chair by the window by the light of the skyscraper signs next door, only half paying any attention to the words on the page.

It was all feeling a bit like déjà vu, really, only this time, while she was alone in their apartment, Bucky wasn't roaming the streets like his alter ego; he was downstairs, in a hospital bed, like a regular human, frail and vacant.

On the third day, though, the routine changed.

On the third day, Darcy walked in to find Jane sitting at the side of the bed.

Darcy was totally drained, both emotionally and mentally, and so she hadn't been prepared for a turn of events like this; in fact, she stood, staring into the room for a moment from the doorway, her brain cycling in circles, unable to process.

And she'd have been surprised, really, if she'd been capable of looking at the situation rationally; instead, after everything that had happened, she was instantly furious.

Her filter, fragile as it was on a good day, snapped. "Now you decide to show up, huh?" she drawled, coming into the room and dropping her bag next to the chair and smoothing her matchstick pants and striped Henley down. "Now?" She was barely aware of how cold she sounded.

And she was, actually, freezing. She hadn't been warm for days.

Jane jumped, looking up at her with wide eyes. "I—"

"If you're thinking of unplugging anything, just know that JARVIS has fail-safes built into the equipment."

Jane flinched.

But Darcy didn't slow. "That's my chair; move."

Lurching, she did so, folding her arms over her chest.

Darcy sat down, crossed her legs, and then her arms, and sat in silence, as usual, watching him but also, somehow, unable to truly look him full in the form, averting her eyes entirely. Her vital, strong Jamie lying prone in a hospital bed felt too wrong.

"You think I would do that?" Jane spoke, quietly, a moment later.

Darcy snorted. "I dunno, Jane, you seemed awful sure, a few days ago, that he was a hairsbreadth from killing us all."

Jane was silent.

Darcy settled on her anger, seized the rage and held onto it, tight, letting it encase her like armor against the awful, biting teeth of her melancholy, the deep, aching grief that ensnared her, every afternoon, when she let herself stand in that doorway and listen to the oxygen machine. It was better than falling to pieces in front of her oldest friend, better than waiting for the inevitable 'I told you so'.

"He's not breathing on his own?" Jane finally asked.

"No."

"Why not? He's like Steve. Steve bounced back after DC, even with three bullets in him. I mean, Buc…" She trailed off. "Never mind."

After Bucky nearly beat him to death.

"I dunno, Jane. But if you came here to gloat, you can get the fuck out."

Again, a moment of shocked silence.

"You think I would do that?"

Darcy turned in her chair to give her a level look. "Well, you definitely succeeded in making your opinion on the matter clear, didn't you? You certainly made it clear that I had to choose between you and him, didn't you?"

Jane flinched.

"So I did. Happy?"

Jane sighed, looking away. "No."

"And whose fault is that, Foster? Hm?"

She sighed. "I just didn't want to see you get hurt," she offered, her voice small.

Her anger sharpened. "Well you did. You got to see it. What do you think you're looking at right now?" she snapped. "The irony is not lost on me, make no mistake."

The astrophysicist wilted. "I didn't mean like this—"

"Oh, riiight. You meant that you thought he'd shank me in my sleep, or that he'd strangle me, right? You meant that you thought he'd randomly revert to type and see me as the enemy, right? You meant that he'd be totally okay with letting the monster they made him off his leash, didn't you? Why don't you just admit it? Hm? Just admit that you secretly thought he was still the Winter Soldier all along. That he'd been him the whole time, that he'd always been him, and that he enjoyed it, that he liked killing people with his bare hands. The good old American Soldier, saved your ass during World War Fucking Two, why kill Nazis when you can kill everyone in sight, right? Maria's really onto something, isn't she? Maybe Darcy was just a convenient whore of an op, right?!" She smiled nastily. "You should've seen him when I told him what she'd said that day. He was furious." It felt so good to finally unload. She couldn't stop; she didn't want to.

Jane sighed. "You know that's not what I mea—"

Darcy stood, her voice rising. "Then what did you mean, Jane?! That I was a little girl who needed parenting? That I had no idea what I was doing, befriending possibly the saddest human being I'd ever met? Oh, wait, that was part of the problem, though, wasn't it? He wasn't. Even. Human."

Jane flinched. "He just…scared me."

Darcy heaved a sigh and sat back down, shaking her head. "That's because you never even bothered to look at him. Never bothered to listen. You just formed a hypothesis in your Science! brain and let it expand until you couldn't see around it."

Jane stared at her. "I just…"

"We've been friends for years, Jane. Wasn't it enough to ask that you trust me? Or was I just that good at being Silly Darcy for you? Hm? Was I that good of an actress, that you really thought I was just brash and stupid?"

And there it was: the root of the problem.

Jane blinked. "No, I…"

"Because I didn't fool him. Not for a minute. He saw right through me."

The silence was deafening.

The monitor continued to beep, regular and steady and Darcy wondered what Bruce's reaction was to this in the adjoining room. Surely, he was there, and surely he'd heard everything so far; Darcy hadn't made any attempt at being quiet.

She could picture him sitting there, brows in his hairline as he listened from his desk chair.

"He, uh…he went back in. After the explosion. For Tony," Jane finally said, looking down at the floor.

The anger, though, it was slowly siphoning off, leaving her depleted again. "Surprised to find that James Barnes is a good man?"

Jane surprised her all on her own and didn't bother denying it. "Yeah. I was, a little. I mean…the Winter Soldier's not a…superhero. You know?"

Darcy snorted again, suddenly exhausted. She had no idea how long it had been since she'd actually slept in more than short fits and starts. "Nah, he's not a superhero. He's just a mindless assassin." She turned to look at her. "You know, he killed JFK. Wasn't Oswald. The conspiracy freaks were right: it was him."

She wasn't sure why she said it; perhaps just the joy of seeing Jane's shocked expression.

But she just nodded.

"I love him," she said, voice stern and fierce. "I love him, Jane."

Jane nodded again. "I know."

"He's sweet. And kind. And warm and gentle. He's a gentleman. He listens when I talk. He doesn't laugh at me, he takes me seriously. He wants me to fight my own battles, but he's the most chivalrous man I've ever met. He protects me. He treats me like a queen. He loves me, and it's so much more that he ever thought he'd be able to have, he gives me so much more than I thought he'd be able to give me."

Jane nodded, looking down at the floor again.

"And he's suffered enough. He's suffered more than anyone should have to suffer in three lifetimes, Jane. He deserves some compassion and patience, after everything they did to him."

"I know."

"Do you?" Darcy challenged, refusing to flinch as she narrowed her eyes and studied the woman, even as the exhaustion began to gain ground, winning the battle, and tears began to pool behind her eyes. "Do you? I don't think you do, Jane. I think your astrophysicist brain is incapable of understanding the concept. Frankly, I have no idea what your relationship even is with Thor and I'm still completely reeling that I could support you through all your Asgard shit and that you could turn around and be such a monumental bitch."

There. She'd said it, even as those damnable tears leaked out and down her face, her voice trembling and rasping.

Jane flinched, hard, and stared.

"So I hope you're happy, now. You got what you wanted, so please. Just go."

She visibly hesitated.

"Just go, Jane," she begged, inwardly horrified that the moment she finally fell apart after days of stalwart refusal to cave, had to be in front of fucking Jane Foster. At least it wasn't Wanda—or Maria. She turned her back on her, and Bucky's still form was a blur through her tears.

But she wouldn't leave, now, as though Darcy's cruel dismissal had spurred something. "I…I just…I came to apologize. Like, really apologize. I was…I was awful. You were right: I was a total bitch and…"

Darcy was shaking against it, determined to hold it at bay. She would not fall apart again, not like she had last winter in their kitchen. She would not. "Please, Jane," she gasped. "Just get out. Just go."

"Foster."

Tony's voice, near the doorway, low and dark, ruffled daddy feathers.

She hiccupped, pressing her hand to her face to try to stem the flow. It was rising, in a wave, now, a crest she couldn't ride out. She was going to drown in the undertow.

Shuffling. Jane sighed, and was gone.

A single sob escaped before she clapped her hands over her mouth, folding in on herself and unable to look at him any longer.

"It's gonna be okay, Short Stack," Tony finally said from very close behind her. His hand settled, firm, around her shoulder. "You know we'll figure something out, baby girl."

A betraying whimper escaped, tears streaming uncontrollably down her face, and she wondered how one person was capable of so much crying.

"I've gotcha, Short Stack," he murmured, coming around her chair and crouching in front of her. "I'm here."

And she lost, spectacularly, all her grief breaking free of the damn she'd carefully constructed, brick by brick.

Tony stood and gathered her to him, wrapping his arms around her and murmuring lowly. "It's okay, Darce. It's gonna be okay, kiddo." He swayed, pressing his chin to the top of her head, and let her cry into his shoulder.

((()))

Tony left an hour later, silent and grim, and in search of lunch. Pepper, with a look of sympathy and encouragement, accompanied him, leaving a carrying container full of Starbucks coffee on the table in Darcy's suite. She went up to shower and pelt away the puffiness from her face.

When she opened the door to go back down to the lab, she found Steve in the hallway, hand up to knock, and smirked. "Sent to babysit me, Rogers?"

But he shook his head. "No. I came up to keep you from going back down."

She frowned. "Why?"

He shrugged and brushed past her, into the apartment. "Because you've been down there enough. Bruce will call if something changes. You should only sit down there for so long, Darce. You'll drive yourself crazy." And he sat down on the couch and turned to give her a stern look.

For a moment, she hesitated, still holding the door open stubbornly. Then she heaved a sigh, and shut it with a snap. "Fine. You super soldiers, you're so bossy." And she threw herself down beside him.

Totally naturally, and without a trace of awkwardness about him, he pulled her legs up and over and set them across his lap. Then he looked at her, long and hard, and she tried not to squirm under that gaze, so similar to Bucky's really, searching and concerned, a remnant, she figured, from back when. "Well?" he finally asked, his brow all crinkly and worried.

She blinked. "Well, what?"

He squeezed her shin. "How ya holdin' up?"

She snorted. "You'd really make someone a great grandpa, Steve."

He smirked. "I'm serious. Are you okay?"

She could've lied. She could've blown it off and shrunk it down into a tiny, insignificant thing. She was pretty sure, with most the people in the Tower, she would have.

But she couldn't with Steve, physically couldn't manage it. She took a breath and held it. "No."

He nodded, reaching for the side table and plucked up a coffee, studied the scribbling on the side, and handed it to her.

She accepted it and took a sip, then stared. "How'd she…?"

He squeezed her shin again and took up another for himself, probably straight black. "Pep saw you, with Tony, I think."

She flinched.

"Asked me if there was anything I thought she could do to help. I gave her one word: coffee."

And there they were again: tears, pricking at the backs of her eyes, and she blinked them back, nodding down at her cup. "You know me too well, Steve."

He winked at her, a small, sad smile there, on his lips. "I know." Then he sighed. "Jane tried to apologize, huh?"

"Again. Picked a hell of a time and place."

He nodded.

"Said she was surprised he'd gone back in for Tony."

His eyebrows rose. "And?"

She shrugged. "And I called her a bitch."

Surprisingly, he didn't scold, he just snorted.

"I'm just so tired of the judging. Everyone in this tower—with the possible exception of you—has a past. Most of them are pretty nasty. But that's the past, you know? It's over. But that's not the case with him, that's not good enough. How many people has Thor killed? But that's okay, I guess. Maria has no problem with him."

"Maria needs to cool her jets."

"Maria needs a punch in the fucking throat, Steve."

He smirked again.

They fell back into silence, and she drank her Dolce Latte. He kept running his hand up and down her shins, smoothing down her periwinkle blue yoga pants under his palm.

"Something I never thought I'd see," she murmured into the quiet.

He looked up. "Hm?"

"Him. Like…like that. He's just so…he's so big. And…and tough and solid, and he's not supposed to be in a hospital bed, like a normal human being."

He nodded solemnly. "You're telling me. It's been the other way around for…well, for as long as I can remember, Darce."

She set her empty cup on the coffee table and reached to straighten the photo of him in his uniform the way she liked it.

Steve's eyes latched onto it and he spoke, his voice low. "He was always taking care of me. Moved out and made sure I'd stay with him; didn't trust me to take care of myself, I think." He chuckled softly, his eyes a thousand miles away. "Always got me whatever medicine I needed, made sure I went to the see the doctors. And he always lied when I asked him how much it all cost. I could hardly work, and I know it all ate up most of his paycheck. Think he paid the rent with smoke and mirrors. I don't know how he kept us afloat."

She studied Steve while he studied the photograph on the table. He looked strained and tired, the lines around his eyes tight. He had some uncharacteristic scruff along his jaw line, too, that she sort of wanted to run her fingers across, she missed the action so much suddenly.

"Always found me a date, though I was a hopeless cause. Had no qualms about sharing with me the nights I was sick, to keep me warm—especially when the heat went out or we went without it. Sat up with me when I had a fever, barely slept, then got up for his shift at the diner or the garage after napping in the chair beside the bed. Don't know how he did it. Better than living under his pop's thumb, I guess."

She was fascinated, but she dare not speak, lest she break the spell; nor was it anyone's story to tell but Bucky's.

He lapsed into silence.

Darcy wasn't fond of silence. The silence made it easier to think, for the thoughts to wage war against her internal defenses. And now she couldn't stop staring at the photograph on the coffee table. "He hates that photograph. Thinks he looks like a jerk."

Steve snorted.

"This is my fault," she murmured.

Steve looked at her, his head whipped up. "Dar—"

"It is." She nodded. "I've…been trying not to think about it, but it's there. It's in the back of my head. I did this, Steve. It's my fault. I should've just…left, and hunted down Killian as soon as Tony told me what was going on."

Steve sighed. "No. Darcy, you can't think that."

"Why not?" She turned to look at him with a challenge. "I had a choice. I could've left. You all would've been safer. Instead, look at this. Tony's in a sling, he's walking around like an old man. And that's even with what I did to heal him!"

He turned to face her. "Darcy, Aldrich Killian did this to you. That's it. You remember what Buck said?"

And there they were, yet again: the awful, burning, betraying tears at the back of her throat, edging their way out, even as she fought them tooth and claw. "Then why is my husband lying downstairs, half dead?!" she nearly shouted, the tears rolling down her face. "Steve, why isn't the serum healing him?! What's wrong—what did I do?!" She stood, lunging up off the couch, suddenly unable to sit there any longer, unable to stand it any longer. "What did I do to him, Steve?! I used everything I had on Tony and then Jamie…" She gasped, the tears tightening her voice, and covered her mouth with a hand, horrified. "Oh, God, Jamie…"

Steve got up and approached as though to embrace her.

But she jerked out of the way, flinching. "Don't touch me, please!" she begged, fleeing. "Not right now." She went to the window and pressed a hand against it, leaning there, gasping for breath, wheezing.

But he approached anyway. "Darcy…"

She gasped. "Oh, God…this is a fucking nightmare. This isn't happening, Steve, tell me this isn't happening!"

He grabbed her, really rather roughly for Captain America, and turned her in his hands to face him. "Darcy, you're having a panic attack. I need you to breathe." He cupped her face and brought it up close to his. "Breathe."

"All I got was a month, Steve! A fucking month!"

"Darcy…"

"I haven't even changed my name! I haven't had the chance! I'm still Darcy fucking Lewis!"

He shook her. "Darcy, listen to me—"

"I'm not even sure what I'm supposed to do now, Steve. What am I supposed to do? Is there paperwork or a—a—oh, God, a will, or—"

"Darcy, breathe."

"And I joked about looking awful in black and that I was way too young to be a widow, Steve—I was joking!"

"Darcy—"

Just then, a beeping sound started, filling the space. It shook them both loose, and they jumped, staring around for a moment, until an infographic hologram shimmered up over the dining room table, red.

Medical Ward Alert, JARVIS announced in his typical calm, dulcet tones.

"Shit—" Darcy gasped, darting for the door.

Steve wasn't far behind her.

She slammed her hand into the elevator call button, then slammed it into the button for the lab floor, Steve's enhanced stamina the only thing keeping him from being crushed between the doors.

When they finally opened again, the two of them spilled out into the hallway and slid through the doorway, Darcy catching herself up on the jamb while Steve pulled a classic Tom Cruise/Risky Business slide straight through in his worn Converse All Stars.

Bruce was working over Bucky, frantic, his normally calm face pinched in a frown of concentration.

Bucky jerked, like a string was tugging on his sternum, or he'd been applied with the paddles.

Darcy gasped, standing there at the bedside and hovering, unsure what to do.

"What's happening?" Steve finally asked, coming up behind her and setting his hands on her shoulders.

She took a breath, leaning back into him. Steve was so good for strength when you needed support.

"He's rejecting the oxygen," Bruce grunted, tugging at one of the many lines tangled around the bed.

"Why?!"

"I can't be sure, yet. If I can get it off—" He gave a great pull.

Bucky lurched up off the bed again.

The beeping came to an abrupt halt.

The heart monitor calmed, then regulated.

They all stood, staring, the abrupt absence of the oxygen machine's wheezing a shock in the sudden silence.

Bucky's chest rose in a deep, deep inhale.

"—I'd be able to determine if it was because he had regained the ability to breathe on his own," Bruce finished, slumping exhaustedly down in a chair. He tucked the tubing under one arm.

Darcy, able to smile for the first time in days, turned to embrace Steve, who was grinning. He brushed the tears away that were still on her face with his big thumbs, and held her close.

"He's breathing, Steve," she whispered. "He's breathing."

He sighed. "He is."

((()))

Over the next week, Tony made it his mission to keep an eye on her—again—in Bucky's absence, and between him and Steve, Darcy felt a little on the claustrophobic side. They were so sweet and tender, though, so gallant and ridiculous, that she didn't have the heart to say anything.

And besides—she knew she'd miss it if they stopped.

Natasha largely gave her space, but Darcy noticed she started coming around more, too, just happened to be in the lab at just the right time of the afternoon, just happened to be walking down the hall outside their suite, just happened to have a six-pack of Corona and a net of limes with her, and—Oh! Look! Natasha had never claimed to be anything like domestic in her entire life, but she forgot she was carrying around this paper grocery bag with two frozen pizzas, a bag of chips, and a tub of orange sherbet. She couldn't possibly eat all of it herself.

Darcy smirked, but opened the door, let her in, and shut it firmly behind them.

And the Corona was still icy cold.

"You know, you guys don't have to hover like you did last spring—Darcy is in no danger of succumbing to feeling sorry for herself this time."

Natasha bumped the oven shut with her hip. "You weren't feeling sorry for yourself last time, Darce. And I'm not hovering. I'm…offering."

Darcy laughed—actually laughed—and rolled her eyes. "Oh, totally. Yeah, offering." She sighed, sipping her Corona. "Where's Captain Hot Butt?"

Natasha slid into her side of the couch. "Moving us back in upstairs."

Darcy choked, trying not to spray her beer over the coffee table. "What?! You're moving back in?"

The spy shrugged. "We…missed the action around here. Felt too…weird, out there, with the…"

"Muggles?"

"Right."

"Yeah, it's sort of eye opening, when you walk out onto the street and realize that you know things the average person on the corner would run from. The inner workings of what it takes to keep those people on those corners. It's…kind of lonely," Darcy philosophized.

Natasha nodded. "Exactly. Steve wanted a place for us, but…a couple weeks ago, I caught him lingering on the training floor, and when I suggested it, he jumped at the chance."

"Goof," Darcy chuckled, and sat forward, grabbed a chip, straightened the picture frame on the table, and went back to her beer. "Awesome. Took you guys long enough."

Natasha watched the nervous action silently, choosing not to comment. She remembered Darcy mentioning how much Bucky hated that photograph, but she'd always thought he looked particularly handsome in it, although something about that soft, shaggy cut he kept his hair in now was seriously appealing.

And Darcy had confirmed it; it was: so, so buttery soft.

"I wasn't sure I'd like it here, to be honest," she suddenly said, her gaze lingering transparently on the photograph. "I mean, I hated that tiny apartment I was renting—if you could call it that—but…I guess…I wasn't sure this would feel like…home."

She spoke in that way she used when she was feeling particularly vulnerable—choppy and stuttering, and her eyes continued to linger on the frame.

"Stupid of me, really."

Natasha leaned forward to retrieve her beer from her coaster—and maybe to test if Darcy's gaze could be redirected—and frowned. "Why?"

She shrugged. "It's not the apartment…it's the…person living in the apartment."

Silence lingered, and Darcy finally looked away, up into Natasha's face, her expression vaguely imploring, and Natasha felt a pang of sympathy. If Steve were down there, she'd be spinning hopelessly around.

So she took a breath and decided she ought to just ask what she'd been wanting to and avoiding, knowing it would make things even worse. "You sleeping okay?"

Darcy shrugged. "No."

She chuckled. "At least you're honest." She sighed. "There's a spare bed—"

"It wouldn't matter," Darcy hastily cut her off, her voice soft. "Empty bed's still an empty bed. And even a heating blanket is cooler than he is at night—and it doesn't breathe." A sad smile. "Thanks, though."

Natasha shrugged.

Just then, the oven timer went off, and Darcy hauled herself up, setting down her beer on the kitchen counter on her way across the room.

Restless, Natasha got up, taking her own bottle with her, and she sipped discontentedly as she moved around the space.

It was cozy. Lived-in, but neat.

A blue blanket, half folded, was tossed across the ottoman.

The bookshelf was half full, one side with novels, the other DVDs and CDs. She cocked her head to read the spines. Various textbooks on Political Science, history books. The entire hardcover collection of Harry Potter. To Kill A Mockingbird. The Great Gatsby. Some fantasy and science fiction, The Lord of the Rings.

Darcy's broad taste in films Natasha already knew very well.

The nineties dominated the music selections, but there was a wide range there, too, and in vaguely timeline order. Sam Cooke, an Elvis collection. A whole lot of Beatles, some Guess Who, Led Zeppelin. Queen, Boston, Cheap Trick. Eighties rock. U2. Then right on through to the Boy Band Era. Backstreet, Hanson, before taking a small detour into alternative, Oasis and The Verve, then the crossover punk rock genre, My Chemical Romance, Paramore. The shelf finished with a handful of classical collections, Beethoven and some movie scores, King Arthur, Pride and Prejudice, New Moon.

Darcy slid the pizza onto a tray and slid the rack carefully back in, hissing that her oven mitt was a hair too thin.

Natasha continued along the wall, finding hanging frames before the hallway to the rest of the apartment, the master bedroom and the ensuite bath.

Three frames, actually, in varying size and hung to draw the eye at an angle. The top one was just a single frame, with a picture of Bucky and Steve from way back when, laughing as they stood together in their gear. They looked like they were in the middle of an op and someone had thought to pull out a camera and take a shot of them, laughing on a snowy embankment. Steve's face was warm, his mouth open in a wide smile. Bucky's nose was scrunched, and there they were—the crinkles at the corners of his eyes that had given even someone as ageless as him just the beginnings of laugh lines.

The old uniforms made them both look rather rugged and even more handsome than they usually did.

The frame hanging kitty korner had numerous slots in it; Natasha counted five. The top was a shot of just Darcy and Bucky, standing in what she thought must've been the foyer of the museum downtown. Yes, there was the dinosaur behind them. Darcy was grinning like a fool, but Bucky wasn't even looking at the camera as Darcy held it out; he was looking at her, a soft look of affection there in his eyes.

The next one was a candid photo that Natasha thought Darcy must've sneaked one evening when Bucky was in a particularly calm mood. After all, just looking at a few of these told Natasha that the Winter Soldier wasn't fond of having his picture taken.

Who could blame him, really?

He was sitting on one end of the couch—the end she'd chosen, actually—under that blue blanket, a book in his lap, and his hair falling softly over his brow as he bowed his head to read. He looked totally unaware that he was even having his picture taken.

The third and fourth were fun shots, Darcy pulling a face on the Brooklyn Bridge, Bucky rolling his eyes in front of The Met, a look of indulgence on his face as Darcy made him pose.

Natasha smiled.

Darcy set the pizza pan on the counter and started digging around in drawers, muttering under her breath to herself. "I swear to God, Barnes, you hide this thing every time you put the damn dishes away…"

She smiled again.

The fifth photo, though, made her pause, for it was quite clearly recently added. Tony and Pepper's quaint B&B, the deck behind it, to be precise, where Natasha had stood during the wedding reception, unsure if she had the balls to go and look for Steve in the small gathering, therefore making it obvious there was something going on between them.

But this wasn't Tony and Pepper's wedding.

This was a photo of someone else's.

It was just the two of them, actually. They stood on that deck, their backs to the camera, and Natasha figured Tony probably snapped it while they had no idea he was lurking. Knowing Tony, he'd skulked around on purpose, eyes peeled for just the right shot and Starkphone set on silent, his newly-programmed camera program done up with the perfect lighting at just a tap.

Their arms were looped around each other, and Darcy's free hand was trailing her small bouquet of lilies against her leg. Her dress was a beautiful, simple slip of a thing, sort of in the mermaid style, with lace at the collar and sleeves, and pearl buttons up the back, just this side of old-fashioned.

Bucky's jacket was missing, and he was in a rare state of relaxed calm that Natasha knew very few people got to see.

They were looking out over the pond beyond the deck, and the Weeping Willow that swept over it, trailing its leafy tendrils in the water like little wishes.

Darcy's head was tipped onto his shoulder.

"I swear, you hide this thing just to piss me off, because you know I flirt better when I'm pissed off…" Darcy was still muttering, backtracking across the kitchen drawers she'd already checked.

Natasha felt a sharp pang in her chest, and flinched away from the photo, feeling a little like a trespasser in someone else's life, listening to Darcy berate someone who wasn't there, like he was already a phantom.

Swallowing thickly, and pushing down the urge to call Steve and tell him she loved him when the action would likely result in his answering in an irked tone, having just dropped a moving box, and she moved on.

Across the room was a long, low table, bridging the gap between the dining room and the living room, and on it was a single, clearly prized possession: a vintage turntable, still with its original lid, and a stack of LPs. On the very top, a copy of Rumors by Fleetwood Mac, the foxing around the edges showing its status as original issue.

Beside this was the mate of the other lounger with the ottoman in the living room set, pulled up so the view of the Manhattan skyline could be appreciated, a small round table beside it, still with a bottle of water and a bookmarked copy of the first Harry Potter in paperback, clearly a copy more for reading and tossing in bags rather than the collector's editions on the shelf.

"Ah-hah!" Darcy finally declared, pulling out a shining pizza cutter and slamming the offending drawer shut. "Darcy: 1, Winter Soldier: 200."

Natasha smirked.

Clearly, even more than she had thought, this was a space shared by two people who had grown together, taken root in each other and settled there in a safe little, loving corner of the world.

It belonged to someone.

She crossed back to study the museum shot again, tipping the last of her Corona into her mouth and swishing it around for something to do. "He's a fan of the museum, huh?" she called across the empty living room.

Darcy looked up from the pizza, and smirked affectionately. "Oh, yeah. He's a total geek. Anytime there's down time and he gets restless. Think he likes that it's so quiet there. You can…I dunno, discover something new every time you go in." She paused, then cleared her throat, and went back to the pizza.

But Natasha had been in the business for too long and Darcy was her closest friend, apart from Steve; she couldn't be easily fooled and the emotion that strained her voice was clear as a bell. "Think maybe he feels…less him…there."

She set the pizza cutter in the sink. "You know what I mean?"

Natasha nodded, nodding slowly. "Yeah, I think so."

((()))

Given that it was late afternoon on a Thursday, Tony wasn't particularly surprised when he was able to easily slide his Lamborghini into a space in front of the old 160 N Bleecker in the Village. He sighed as he hit the roof release button and looked around at his old stomping ground as the roof came back up over the car and secured itself over his head. The Huracan Spyder had been one of his more lavish purchases in the last few years, but he loved it—especially the matte black paint job he'd ordered immediately after delivery.

He hoped that taste in Italian supercars might come in handy for him today. Greenwich Village was largely quiet at the moment, most of the crowd in summer classes.

Even Café Wha?, where he'd seen The Velvet Underground on their last reunion tour, was quiet. He passed it by, nodded to a little old lady in hippie scarves and Doc Martins walking her Standard Poodle, and stopped in front of the address he was looking for.

177 North Bleecker was an imposing façade, that much was true. Its vast double doors were all iron and copper, shining dully in the low light of late afternoon and inscribed with various symbols Tony had no translation for, nor any care to understand. The whole idea of other dimensions, filled with other nameless beings intent on conquering Earth gave him even more nightmares than he already dealt with.

As it was, the whisperings of a few short months ago, of so-called Dark Dimensions and some freak named Kaecilius were whisperings he decidedly did not want to hear the details of.

He paused here, looking around. There was no doorbell. Was he just supposed to, uh…knock?

And as he looked back up, there appeared an old-fashioned doorknocker, with a lion's head and everything, the bit of the knocker clenched between its huge canines.

He jumped. "Okay, that was not there before. You all saw it." He pointed, then glanced around him at the surrounding sidewalk.

He was alone.

"And in the knocker, Marley's face," he muttered. Shrugging, he lifted a hand and knocked, once, twice, three times, watching the low light of the slowly sinking sun glint off his wedding band and thinking of Bucky, unable to even wear his in the appropriate place.

There was a deep, basso profundo thunder from inside, and the doors slowly opened with a horror movie creak, ominous in the still silence within.

There was no one on the other side.

"Just saying," he told the dim foyer as he stepped within. "I don't come back, I've got a CEO and a really snarky PA that'll come after me with reckless abandon. Just letting you know."

There was no answer.

Sighing, he looked around. The foyer was really quite impressive, old mosaic tile on the floor and a magnificent grand staircase, polished banisters and all. He frowned, shrugged, and began jogging up it with a careless gait he didn't really feel.

The second floor was even more impressive, glass cases for miles, it seemed, with ancient relics in each one.

African and Inuit style masks.

Suits of armor.

Battle axes.

Swords.

Katanas.

Things he didn't have names for.

A nasty looking medieval suit of…something, hung on the wall near the front window looking over Bleecker, full of levers and odd catches that looked designed to hold a person hostage on their knees. It even had a fitting to cover the mouth.

"Kinky," he muttered, then turned on his heel and started down the only hallway he could see, curious what other chambers might be hidden.

For a few moments, he stood in front of three very strange windows indeed, each one playing a different scene: one a long stretch of desert that looked like a drift of the Empty Quarter; one a beautiful tropical beach complete with palm trees; and the third a beautiful deciduous forest with towering redwoods. There was a dial on the wall that his Engineer's fingers itched to turn, just to see what other delights could be discovered, but he backed slowly away before he could give in to the temptation and likely cause even more trouble.

With a sigh, he stuck his hands in his pockets and turned the corner into a smaller, darker chamber, to find a tall, rather imposing figure standing before the only light source in the room, a large, circular window with a weird symbol built into it to match the ones on the self-serve door.

Stephen Strange turned, slowly, and eyed him, but with the back light from the street, Tony couldn't see his face. "Tea, Mr. Stark?" He gestured toward a small kitchenette in the corner of the room, then gestured again, and a small lamp on a side table flared to life.

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Sure."

The man came down off the raised dais of the window platform and into the room proper. "And thank you for not…fiddling with the viewer in the main gallery—I've got it set just right and if it's off by a fraction, the fractals won't align and then the mirrors don't work right, and…" He waved a hand. "It's a pain."

Tony blinked, looked back once over his shoulder toward the last hallway, then turned back again. "Right. Sure."

Steam started to pour into the air, then, over in the kitchenette, and with another wave, the entire set settled itself on a serving tray and made its way to the table set beside a chair in the center of the room. "Wong likes to mess with it; he knows it pisses me off," he continued, conversationally.

"Wong," Tony repeated, nodding. "Of course."

"A colleague." Stephen stopped behind the chair facing away from the window and the tray set down with a gentle tap. He gestured for the other chair. "Have a seat, Mr. Stark."

Tony did; the chair was much more comfortable than it had looked.

Strange handed Tony his cup and sat back, eyeing him with a wry smirk. "Trust me, Stark, a year ago, this all looked much stranger to me than it does to you."

Tony cocked his head. "You sure?"

He nodded. "Very."

Tony sipped, then blinked again, pleasantly surprised. "Good tea."

Strange gave him another small smile. "Nothing special. It's just tea—with a little honey." And then the smile turned inward, like he was enjoying a special little joke with himself, and Tony didn't pry by asking on it.

He had more tact than his wife gave him credit for, after all.

This was all very, very strange—and Tony had seen plenty of strange things, in the past few years particularly.

But random doorknockers, the self-serve door, the freaky windows to other places… They hadn't really made introductions—unless Tony was supposed to count the levitating tea tray as Strange's 'Hello, nice to meet you, I'm probably the next Sorcerer Supreme'—or whatever the hell they called it now.

Tony had no qualms, really. After all, he'd grown up an engineering prodigy and he had no problem understanding complex math, intricate scientific simulations, not to mention covering thermonuclear astrophysics in one night a few years ago.

But this. This was new. This was crossing into a realm he didn't understand and still thought of in some corner of his mind as a genre firmly tucked on the bookshelf between Science Fiction and High Fantasy.

Levitating tea trays?!

"I freaked you out, didn't I?"

He blinked, looking back up to find Strange studying him with a look of apprehension. The gray hair at his temples suited him, lending an air of sophistication and knowledge to his carefully shorn hazelnut brunette. His eyes were a clear, clever blue and he wore a Van Dyke similar to Tony's, only his mouth was longer and thinner, adding an extra edge of…cruelness…to his mouth. No, not cruelness. It definitely spoke of wit, perhaps the arrogance from his past life that—if rumor had it—he'd firmly left there.

After all, he'd offered him tea, and he seemed fairly easygoing so far.

So Tony settled for a shrug. "I can roll with it."

Strange eyed Tony across the space. "What can I do for you, Stark? If it's helping you take care of Thor's not-so-sane brother, I'm afraid I'll…have to pass."

Tony smirked. "Uh, no. No. Something a little less…strange." He shrugged. "Sorry. Couldn't resist."

Strange raised a brow, but didn't otherwise comment on the pun—one he likely heard on a daily basis. "So…?"

Tony sighed, exceedingly uncomfortable. "I'm in need of your…expertise."

Stephen wiggled his fingers around in the air. "For?"

But Tony shook his head. "No, not that expertise. The…other stuff."

This, finally, was something that seemed to take the sorcerer by surprise. He cocked his head and studied him, one eyebrow arched into his high, neat hairline. "You mean—"

"You were a neurosurgeon, right? Before…" He looked around, still uncomfortable. "…All this."

Strange, still peering at him, nodded. "Before I skipped my Huracan in the Hudson like a pebble, yes, I was."

"Right. Well, I need…that expertise."

He blinked. "The Avengers need help from a…doctor." It wasn't a question, but more of a skeptical statement.

Tony nodded. "Right, yes."

He shifted in his seat. "Might I ask why?"

Tony sighed. This was the part he was dreading. "Um. Yeah, well, an old…friend of mine. He sort of…decided to…blow something up."

The sorcerer's eyebrows both shot up this time.

"And one of our team…isn't doing so hot."

Strange tilted his head and gave him a look from under his lashes. "Which one?"

Tony squirmed. "I don't know how much research you've done on—"

"Go ahead, Stark."

"The Winter Soldier," he blurted, all at once, desperate to just get it over with. "Barnes. He…he's been on our team for the past year and—"

"You want me to take a look at the brain of a super soldier." Again, less a question and more a statement, and while Tony was grateful he hadn't first gone after the whole, Russian HYDRA Assassin thing, he had to admit he was surprised.

And apparently, also, he was entirely transparent to this guy. "I'm hardly one to throw stones concerning someone else's past, Stark," Strange scoffed. "But, I have to admit, I don't know the first thing about super soldier physiology. What's the problem?"

A little more at ease now, Tony leaned back and heaved a sigh. "Seems like he cracked his head pretty hard. Skull fracture and a laceration along his brain stem."

Another raised eyebrow. "And he survived? Even a super soldier would be hard pressed to walk away from a force strong enough to crack his skull."

Tony set down his tea cup. "That's the thing—he…didn't."

Strange shifted again, throwing one leg over the other, and gave him that look.

"His…wife…has…abilities that are, as yet, unquantified," he finally managed, blinking. "God, this is weird. Anyway. I was pretty banged up, and she managed to…pull the damage…out of me. Unfortunately—"

"She had nothing left for James Barnes?"

Tony blinked.

Strange smiled—his first true smile—and set his own cup down. "I have, in fact, been doing quite a bit of research, Mr. Stark. This is Darcy Lewis? The intern?"

He shifted, a bit ruffled at the idea that Darcy was 'intern' anything. "Well, she's my PA now. And she's…way too smart for all that, it's just that—up until now, of course—she was…human. Now she's…something else." He heaved another sigh. "Anyway, Bucky was…Bucky wasn't responding. No pulse. But she did…something to him. Brought him back. But he's been unresponsive ever since."

Strange nodded, frowning as he listened. "When was this?"

"Last week."

"I assume Banner has been in residence?"

Tony nodded.

"Any brain activity?"

"A lot. That's the thing we can't figure out. Darcy is…Darcy is…" He gave up.

But Strange nodded, his gaze glancing off the watch around his left wrist. "Having a hard time."

Swallowing, Tony nodded, then totally surrender, giving himself up to something he never did—beg. "She's…she's like my kid, Strange. I can't just sit around anymore. And Buck's had enough shit to last sixteen lifetimes, and Bruce is totally out of his depth. I was hoping you'd come by and…take a look, any ideas you can spare might help."

"Fine."

Blinking, Tony jerked upright. "What?"

Strange nodded. "I said, 'Fine.' I'll stop by later. There are a few things I have to finish up here, a couple wards I've been meaning to put in place, and I'll stop by." He stood, and held out his hand.

Tony scrambled up to shake his hand. "Right. Great. Uh. Thanks."

They shook, and Tony—feeling incredibly unsure of his footing—went to leave.

"Oh, and Stark," Strange called just at the last moment.

Tony spun.

Stephen Strange smiled. "Nice Lambo."